


The Itch

by ravenclawkohai



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: low-chaos ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:39:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclawkohai/pseuds/ravenclawkohai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On those nights, he slipped out his window and climbed Dunwall Tower as only he could. The sharp paranoia was replaced by freedom. He knew these paths, knew how to make his way along balconies and through alcoves and the easiness of it loosened the panic-knot in his chest. When he slipped back into his window to prepare for the day, he lost sight of the bars at least a little. But he was only allowed that freedom for so long, he knew that." post-Low Chaos ending; Corvo stops using his gift and the Outsider wants to see how far he can push Corvo before he changes his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                He barely noticed at first.

                It started early, less than a week before Emily would ascend the throne. Corvo’s days of running through sewers and blinking between balconies were drawing to a close, and though he was unbelievably glad to know the end was in sight, he could feel the restraints of polite society beginning to work their way back into his life. Planning the Ascension ceremony. ( _the weight of unseen eyes_ ). Watching Emily show him dress after dress as she tried to decide on a gown. ( _glimpses of decay-dead eyes in a crowd)_. The bitter taste of paranoia on the back of his tongue as he tried to plan security perfectly. The job had always made him nervous for her ( _because he still can’t say her name not anymore_ ); the paranoia wasn’t new, but the panic was. The restrictions of court were settling around him like chains, in front of him like bars. He woke, time and again, in a cold sweat, the sound of screams and whispered promises to stop if he just talked still ringing in his ears. On those nights, he slipped out his window and climbed Dunwall Tower as only he could. The sharp paranoia was replaced by freedom. He knew these paths, knew how to make his way along balconies and through alcoves and the easiness of it loosened the panic-knot in his chest. When he slipped back into his window to prepare for the day, he lost sight of the bars at least a little. But he was only allowed that freedom for so long, he knew that.

                The gloves were the last of his preparations. He wore cheap, old, worn gloves to hide the Mark in the weeks before Emily’s Ascension, but they had a temporary air about them. He knew they weren’t permanent. When he was alone, he shed them with relish, and it felt like chains being removed. He tried not to think about the why.

                ( _because it was a gift and he should be able to use it_ )

                ( _because it was his last tie to freedom and the night air and the rush of wind against his skin_ )

                ( _because when the gloves became permanent he would lose the freedom His gift brought_ )

                Two days before the Ascension, he went to the nicest store he could find. He remembered Pendleton mentioning the place when he said how excited he was to buy new clothes and dress properly again ( _right before they slipped the poison into his drink_ ). He would have walked out of the Hound’s Pits and into the first store he found with a cheap, passable pair of gloves and been done with it, but he was the Lord Protector, and that post came with much, much more than just a title. It came with a slew of duties and responsibilities, enough to keep a man up at night ( _as if he needed another reason not to sleep_ ); the tiniest part of his duties was to be presentable. It wouldn’t do to have slob standing at the Empress’s shoulder. That meant shaving every morning, keeping his uniform impeccable, and walking into a fine leather goods store that would sell gloves to the standards of those who would be staring during ceremonies.

                It meant having to politely nod when the overly-enthusiastic young man behind the counter greeted him in a too-sweet voice.

                ( _if he held the Heart to his ear right now what would he hear)_

                “What can I do to help you today, sir?” the too-happy young man said.

                As if he couldn’t read the nervousness in the lines of his shoulders and the almost-panic in the tiny, tiny waver in his voice.

                ( _he still isn’t trusted he’s still corvo the maybe-maybe-not-empress-killer_ )

                “A pair of gloves,” Corvo said.

                The young man smiled too widely and bobbed his head. He proceeded to babble about cuts and stitches and colors, pulling out sets and sets and sets for Corvo to inspect. The procedure wasn’t improving his opinion of the young man’s normal clientele who so loved this experience. Corvo began to tune him out. He ran through patrol patterns in his head; he knew the holes in their routes ( _he’d made use of those very gaps himself after all_ ) and how very easy it would be for a man like Daud to exploit them. He was starting to run out of security details to run over, the young man still babbling. He wondered if they would have eel for dinner. He’d developed a liking for it.

                “—it’s the material that’s causing the itch, sir—”

                The young man took Corvo’s left hand in his to point out the cracks in his gloves.

                “—You can see the leather cracking, it must let all sorts of debris through, a tiny rock or bit of dirt would have you scratching all day-“

                Corvo snatched his hand back.

                The young man look confused.

                Corvo cleared his throat.

                “I’ve a small rash. I’d like the gloves in black.”

                The young man paused a few beats too long before nodded, slapping the fake, fake grin back on his face and beginning to babble again, pulling out several different pairs of black gloves to show.

                ( _had the mark been itching_ )

                ( _when had it started_ )

                ( _had it just been a coincidence_ )

                ( _must have been_ )

                The itch must have been a coincidence, and he chose black gloves because they were versatile ( _not because of the thought of black, black, watchful eyes_ ), and as he left the shop he most _certainly_ did not hear anything that sounded strangely like a snicker so close to his ear.

 

                He hadn’t noticed at first, but he was starting to.

                The itch began in the glove shop, and for three months he convinced himself it was just a regular itch that just happened to be on his Mark, just by coincidence. Emily’s Ascension passed without incident, as Corvo stood behind her right shoulder, right hand clasped over his left behind his back ( _he certainly didn’t spend the dull length of the speeches focusing on his hand and waiting for an itch to start_ ). If the weight of ( _unseen_ ) eyes was particularly heavy that day, it was because of the crowd of people staring up toward the throne beside him. If he thought he saw particular ( _death-decay black_ ) eyes set in the faces of strangers in the room, it was only a trick of the light.

                It was pure coincidence that Corvo visited the Hound’s Pits three months to the day from the incident in the leather shop. He sat to the side of the bar as the patrons became drunker and drunker, singing about drunken whalers at the tops of their voices as Samuel grinned and laughed, joining in on occasion. Corvo stayed to the side, glad for simple company, without pomp, where they may recognize him as the Lord Protector, but they also a regular. Here, they didn’t greet him with suspicious looks and false smiles. They greeted him with slaps on the shoulder and drunken, booming calls of his name and offers of a drink. Sometimes there were only a handful of people with their faces hidden in bottles—on slow days, or when Corvo arrived close to closing because the day had been hectic but he needed the drink and the company of a man who knew how to have easy, if one sided, conversation. This day, three months after the shop, wasn’t slow, it was packed and people were standing, leaning against one another, raising mugs and spilling beer down each other’s fronts. Corvo watched, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips ( _these people were his people they knew what a hard day’s work was and what earning your keep by the sweat of your brow meant_ ) as he took a sip of his own drink. He had been talking to Samuel when the singing started, but they had both stopped to watch and, in Samuel’s case, laugh with the merrymakers. It wasn’t until Samuel leaned closer to him that he realized he had stopped watching his patrons ( _the weight of eyes pressed against him so constantly for so long now he didn’t even notice_ ).

                “Ought to be careful when you pull on those gloves of yours. Wouldn’t want you to get a rash from grit stuck inside,” Samuel said, his voice raised just enough that Corvo could hear over the singing.

                He froze, looked down at where his right fingers had been scratching the top of his left, then looked back at Samuel.

                ( _samuel was a sailor_ )

                ( _he didn’t used to wear gloves around him_ )

                ( _he had seen the mark_ )

                ( _he was a sailor and no sailor didn’t know the mark of the being whose name they cursed  when the seas frothed and praised when they stilled_ )

                Samuel gave him a slow, steady look, and then a nod. He went back to his business.

                Corvo put down a few coins and left the pub.

                ( _the mark still itched and burned_ )

                He shoved his hand determinedly in his pockets, refusing to acknowledge the way the edges of the Mark still itched and prickled.

                He refused to acknowledge how the weight of ( _black as the deep_ ) eyes pressed heavier and heavier against him.

 

                He slept worse than usual that night. He checked security again and again, until he was exhausted and knew he could drop against the pillow and immediately fall asleep.

                How long it took him to fall asleep wasn’t the issue.

                It was the _dreams_.

                Corvo tossed and turned, trapped in memories. Being sent from her. Coming back ( _you cannot save her_ ) just to fail her. Her body in his arms. Prison. Torture. ( _it’ll all stop if you just confess_ ). Emily found and lost. Poison. He woke between each, shaking and gasping, each memory punctuated with light that curved and warped, dark as death eyes, and whispers like whalesong. Between each, the itch climbed to a burn.

                He woke the last time with a start, the pain of the burn tearing a sharp cry from him as he bolted up. Corvo clamped his right hand over his left, gasping, the world swimming between day and dream ( _and the warped light of the void_ ) as he scrambled for his gloves. He snatched them from the dresser, stumbling to get them, his legs tangling briefly in the sheets before his fingers met the smooth, cool leather and yanked them on. Corvo stood, his breath coming in hurried puffs, his sheets tangled around his legs, his gloves now safely on his hands.

                The burn faded to a tingling itch.

                He sighed in relief.

                He righted himself and prepared for the day as if it was any other. The only difference was Emily’s concerned comment on the bags under his eyes ( _the too heavy weight of too dark too watchful eyes_ ) and the way he kept catching his right hand reaching to scratch his left.

 

                The days went on.

                The itch remained.

                The dreams worsened.

                Each day he woke with an amused, smug voice whispering in his ear, “My dear, stubborn Corvo.”

                ( _he knew it was stupid_ )

                ( _he knew it was stubborn and immature_ )

                ( _he also knew he didn’t want to put on a show_ )

 

                The Heart stayed with him. He told himself it was to avoid the Overseers finding it ( _and pretended that throwing it away wasn’t an option_ ). He hid it in the right breast pocket inside his coat.

                He ignored it when it started beating faster.

               

                The itch didn’t fade. He taught himself to not scratch. He kept his hands clasped behind his back. The stance gave an air of confidence to those who saw him. It let him breathe easier knowing his fingers were wrapped around his hand instead of scratching at the skin ( _like the rats had in the sewers_ ). He schooled himself. The itch existed, a constant nagging that lingered in the back of his awareness. When he was busy, he didn’t notice. When he was trying to sleep ( _before the memories and curved light and smug whisper returned to haunt him_ ), it kept him awake. He scratched at it ( _like the rats had_ ) until the skin was raw, sometimes until it bled ( _like red tears from weepers_ ), always until he was just too tired and slipped into nightmares.

                He tossed and turned all night, and in the morning, he made the same mad dash for his gloves, for the tiny ( _fading_ ) bit of relief they seemed to offer.

                After a while, Emily stopped asking about the bags under his eyes.

 

                As the city began to grow into peace, the Overseers blamed the long wait for the plague’s cure on the Outsider and praised the people’s faith in the Strictures as the cause for the ending. They went on a crusade to scour the city of the graffiti ( _if only they knew how truly He walked among them_ ) and runes and bone charms and shrines. There were whispers of a new war on witches.

                ( _he wondered how much of it was His plans_ )

                When Corvo felt the Heart begin to pound and race, he didn’t go to search for the shrines and runes and bone charms, for his own benefit or for the Overseers. He walked passed until the Heart’s beat began to slow.

                The only contribution to the hunt he made was to hand in a pile of bone charms and runes he “found while working around the city.”

                ( _it wasn’t really a lie_ )

                ( _after all he was working for the city when he was trying to place emily on the throne)_

_(they didn’t need to know specifics_ )

                ( _just like they didn’t need to know about the heart)_

_(or the single bone charm he kept in his spare breast pocket)_

_(improved stamina would always be helpful after all_ )

 

                It was a year after the Ascension when the Overseers came to Emily with what they said was a witches’ uprising just outside Dunwall. The Abbey couldn’t abide the death of the faithful to heathen rights. They must send someone. The Abbey could not spare Overseers; there was too much to be done within the city walls.

                Someone must do something.

                The High Overseer’s words almost withered in his mouth at the look Corvo gave as he stared him down. The man of faith knew who the Empress would send ( _they always sent him it was always him that they trusted what if he isn’t back in time what if he can’t save her either_ ) but he refused to offer another option.

                Emily looked up at him with a guilty look.

                When Corvo looked back, he could only offer a resigned nod.

                ( _to argue would only mean tears and panic and desperation in her voice that he knew he couldn’t refuse)_

_(he was going to end up going anyway)_

_(might as well save them both the heartache)_

It took him a day to arrive where he was going. He ( _told himself he_ ) didn’t plan the time, but he arrived outside the city in the perfect time of night, when the shadows pitched deepest and the only people around were the guards who move in their strict ( _easy to avoid_ ) patrols. He was alone. Here, people might not even know his face. He walked through the small town and looked up at the buildings that were only three stories tall.

                He felt himself reach out with his hand.

                ( _the balcony’s so close he could blink twice as far if he tried_ )

                He let the power slip from his hand.

                ( _the weight of too-dark eyes pressed against him)_

                ( _the air breathed a gust past his ear that sounded amused)_

( _that sounded like it whispered “interesting”)_

                Corvo walked through the town, following the directions the Overseers had given him to the nearest inn. It was only a block down when he felt the Heart stutter.

                And begin to race.

                He ignored it.

                But he did pick up his pace.

                He went into the inn, paid for a night, and went to his room. Disarmed. Dressed down. Laid his gloves on the nearest surface to the bed ( _four feet away he’s going to fall on his face scrambling to get there in the morning and he knows it_ ). Stared at the bed.

                He knew it was fruitless. It would be another night of scratching and tossing and turning and being driven half mad until he woke with a strangled cry and a fire in his hand.

                Outside, the shadows were pitching deep. There was no one around to catch him. He would be doing his job. Peer in a few windows, peer through the walls, search for what doesn’t belong. Hold the Heart in his hand ( _hear her voice again_ ) and let it lead him to what the Overseers were looking for. There was a charm or a rune so close. He could sneak into whatever building hid it, steal it, and be out with no one the wiser.

                He threw himself onto the bed, buried his face in the mattress, and slammed the pillow over his head.

                The weight of ( _blacker than shadow_ ) eyes weighed on him, and Corvo found himself wondering if a sleep dart would help.

 

                The burn forces him awake in the morning ( _he does fall on his face when he dives for his gloves_ ), but today, the itch has reached a fever pitch and refuses to cool. A few degrees shy of the furnace that wakes him in the morning, but so much worse than even yesterday. He does his best to ignore it as he goes through the town, striking up conversation with people. He finds he’s picked up a tiny bit of Samuel’s easy conversation, enough to get these people to talk to him without looking suspicious. But the burn flares occasionally, and he can barely force himself to focus through the end of a conversation before seeking a bathroom or private corner to tear off his gloves and scratch desperately at the Mark.

                Before lunch, it’s chafed and raw.

                By dinner, it’s bleeding.

                By dusk, the bandage is bled through.

                Corvo hurries to his room in the inn, frustrated and wound impossibly tight. He found nothing to justify sending him here and by the time he reaches his room, the burn is hotter than ever and shows no sign of abating.

                Outside, the shadows are deepening. Civilians are replaced by guards. Corvo stares at his bed, his teeth gritted, his jaw clenched.

                Minutes pass.

                The shadows deepen.

                The burn flares brighter, and this time, it steals his breath from him. He catches himself on the foot of the bed with his right hand as his knees weaken with the intensity of the fire.

                ( _the weight of blacker than shadow eyes press against him, waiting, watching, wondering_ )

                By the time the burn settles from the heat of the sun to the heat of a bonfire, Corvo finds himself already perched in the window, hood pulled down over his face.

                ( _he’s just doing his job)_

_(there may be no witches here but he knows there’s a carved piece of bone hidden somewhere)_

_(The Overseers will want something to show they weren’t completely wrong_ )

                It’s only half a second before Corvo jumps impossibly high and far into the gap above the street, only to blink to the roof on the other side.

                When he lands, he falls as his knees refuse to hold him.

                He’s lying against a roof under the limited cover of the early night, but a ( _slightly hysterical_ ) laugh tears from him.

                The burn fades to an itch. The tension he didn’t know he was holding in his shoulders dissipates. His muscles are looser than they’ve been in months.

                It’s only seconds before he’s on his feet and blinking to the next roof, and the roof after, and the roof after that.

                The itch fades entirely. He relaxes. He feels lighter than he has since the glove shop.

                When he finds the spot where the Heart begins to race, he has to scramble to a stop ( _he’d been running and blinking and it’s a wonder people aren’t staring at their roofs_ ). He doesn’t pull the Heart out ( _he still isn’t ready to hear that voice again_ ), but he follows it past a family talking together and down into their basement.

                He follows it to a purple-draped shrine where the light warps wrong and black tendrils ooze from a rune placed in the center.

                Corvo halts.

                He pauses.

                ( _maybe He won’t come_ )

                ( _maybe He’s busy)_

_(maybe it was the weight of different eyes he’d been feeling these past months_ )

                When Corvo approaches the shrine, his steps are wary and his eyes are narrowed.

                He reaches out for the rune, carefully staring at the space in the air where the Outsider always appears.

                He snatches the rune.

                And nothing happens.

                He stares in disbelief at his good luck ( _he finally managed to escape notice_ ). He lets out a sigh of relief and tucks the rune into his pocket.

                He feels hands ( _that radiate chill through his coat_ ) slide onto his shoulders.

                “My _dear_ Corvo.”

                ( _no_ )

                “You didn’t really think I had forgotten you, did you?”

                ( _no_ )

                Corvo freezes in place, the tension that had so recently dissipated returning suddenly. When the Outsider speaks, he can feel His ( _deathly cold_ ) breath against his ear ( _and it smells like the salt of the sea and lightning-burned air_ ).

                “You’ve been so determined to be _boring_ , Corvo. You know how I feel about _boring_. I had a mind to look for someone interesting elsewhere—Morley, maybe, or Tyvia—but you still have so much _potential_.”

                ( _he knows the words that are coming but he dreads them and prays to be wrong_ )

                “So let’s see if we can do _better_.”

                ( _it was bound to go unheard when the only being he knows to pray to is the one whispering to him_ )

                The Outsider waves a hand and the gloves disappear. He lifts Corvo’s hand, inhales the scent of the blood that smells so much like the sea. His breath washes over it ( _cold as sea water that cramps the muscles of men and pulls them down to drown)_ when He speaks. His lips ( _soft but frozen_ ) brush against the bloody furrows left from a day of trying to cope with an impossible itch. His lips leave a sting against his hand ( _like it was kissed by the salt of the sea_ ).

                “Tell me, dear Corvo, do you want what your Overseers call a witches’ uprising? Mad heretics with impossible powers dancing in the night and building shrines framed in purple. The spread of the old ways in spite of the will of your gold-masked Overseers. People like you taking back what is theirs.”

                The Outsider’s fingers tighten on his shoulder, but the hand that holds Corvo’s is light. His tongue runs over the raw skin, pressing in the salt of the sea. He flinches in spite of himself.

                “I’m waiting, my dear.”

                Corvo shakes his head.

                The Outsider peeks up at him, one ( _black as the deep_ ) eye watching. The smirk that curls on His lips brushes against his hand.

                “No? No, I imagine not. You’d trade all the freedom in the world to keep dear Emily safe. You’d certainly trade the freedom of others to keep her on the throne. No matter the similarities you share.

                “I wonder what you’ll do, dear Corvo, when the Overseers begin to haul the witches in to convert them. Or burn them, when their Strictures fail them. _I wonder_ just how many heretics will need to point the finger at _you_ , my dear, before the Overseers begin to truly doubt. What you’ll do when they ask you to remove those lovely gloves of yours. Maybe they’ll find a mad heretic, with a bloodied Mark on his hand. Or _maybe_ they’ll spot you blinking between balconies to keep the burn at bay.”

                The Outsider smiles ( _like a shark at a guppy_ ) and presses a kiss ( _that burns of the salt of the sea_ ) against his hand. His lips come away bloody.

                “Be careful, my dear Corvo, and remember: _don’t be boring_.”

                And with that, Corvo finds himself alone.


	2. Chapter 2

                Corvo didn’t stay a second night in the town. The Outsider disappeared ( _but the weight of his eyes didn’t_ ) and left Corvo before the shrine, gloveless. He wrapped a cloth around his hand as a bandage and snuck out of the building. He listened carefully for footsteps, peered through locks and leaned around corners. He crouched low and walked swiftly on quiet feet. But he didn’t blink to safety or peer through the walls.

                ( _he was supposed to be interesting)_

_(it was what He wanted)_

Corvo escaped into the night air, climbed carefully to the rooftops, making his way through shadow back to his room.

                ( _He would likely get what He wanted sooner or later)_

_(but what He wanted usually came with chaos)_

                He climbed through his window, hurriedly gathered his belongings, and hurried from the inn. He left money for the night in the room, but began to make his way home again with the night still hanging around him.

                ( _he wasn’t inclined to help with that_ )

                Corvo travelled by foot. The Abbey had insisted he take one of Sokolov’s oil-powered carriages to the village. The driver of it would realize that he was gone some time tomorrow and would come search the roads for him or, failing that, return to Dunwall to report him missing. He was relatively confident that the carriage would find him tomorrow. If not, well, that would just buy him more time.

                He had a lot of thinking to do, and the calm stillness of the night helped.

                ( _even if the weight of His eyes didn’t_ )

                His feet fell against the dirt road almost silently. The road was empty.

                He had an important decision to make.

 

                He made his decision before dawn. It was midday before the car pulled up beside him, the driver frantically explaining his search for him and how he thought he had disappeared. Corvo apologized but offered no explanations for his sudden departure. Much of the remaining trip to Dunwall passed in silence.

 

                He’d never seen Emily _so_ angry.

She was a little girl still, but when she lost her temper, she didn’t seem like one. There was no fit-pitching, no foot-stamping. There was a strangely imperial girl ( _who looked like a miniature version of her mother)_ sitting on the throne, staring down her nose at those who crossed her, hands clutching tight enough to the arms of the throne to turn her knuckles white. Corvo stood behind her, hands behind his back, right over left ( _hiding the mark that prickled along its edges_ ), and felt a vague sense of pride. One day, she’d be a great Empress.

“You told me there were dozens of the faithful being slaughtered,” Emily said, staring at the High Overseer, who waited on bended knee ( _and seemed so afraid of this girl who was so small_ ). “You told me there was an uprising—a disaster. I believed you and I sent my Lord Protector.”

“Empress, he was only gone for two days—“

“And it only took a minute for assassins to kill my mother.”

The High Overseer shifted, but kept his mouth shut.

“He only found one rune. You’ve found dozens more in the Flooded District. Next time you think there’s something wrong, send the Overseers.”

“But Empress—“

“I’m not sending Corvo to go find a single rune for you again, High Overseer.”

He looked like he was going to protest, but then shut his mouth, and nodded.

“Go away,” Emily said, and he did, quick as he could.

( _she seems older than her years so so much older)_

_(she’s an empress)_

_(he can’t protect her from her this)_

When the High Overseer left, Emily sighed and slumped in her throne, but the scowl stayed on her lips. She looked up at him.

“Do you think I was too mean, Corvo?”

He smiled, ruffled her hair ( _she still giggled the way she did years ago)_ , and said, “Not at all.”

She beamed up at him, and for the moment, everything was okay.

 

                Evening had only barely begun when Corvo revisited the glove shop. He dreaded returning, but returned out of necessity, hoping that the blabbering young man wouldn’t be the one behind the counter that day.

                He was.

                Corvo had had a very long day ( _filled with angry young empresses and displeased overseers_ ) and an even longer night ( _filled with whispering runes and winding dirt roads and His voice in his ear)_. He was tired ( _he was exhausted_ ). He wasn’t very patient, but the gloves couldn’t wait ( _the bandage could only stay on so long and he needed the gloves for when he awoke with a fire in his hand in the morning)_. The young man gave him a wide ( _fake_ ) smile when he walked in.

                “Good evening, sir, how can—”

                “White,” Corvo said, interrupting the young man as he approached the counter.

                “… Excuse me?” the boy said, a look of confusion on his face.

                “I’d like white leather gloves,” he said. There must have been a look of impatience on his face because the young man nodded briefly and immediately hurried to grab gloves. He showed him a variety of styles and shades of white, off-white, and cream. He spoke quietly, saying little except to explain differences between sets. Corvo pointed to the style and colors he preferred in silence. He felt vaguely guilty for his behavior, but when he was leaving, gloves in hand, in less than half the time it had taken before, he couldn’t bring himself to feel truly bad about it.

                He walked back to Dunwall Tower, thinking that white was more fashionable than black, and that it was Emily’s favorite color anyway.

                He carefully didn’t think about how much effort he would have to put in to keep them clean.

                ( _he surely didn’t think about how white was the opposite color of certain black-as-the-deep eyes)_

 

                The itch had taken months to develop the first time. It was back within weeks. Corvo ignored it, as he had taught himself, but instead of steadily building as it had before, it began to flare at certain times. When the Heart began to race. When the Overseers preached of the Uprising. When they dragged in the witches, kicking and screaming.

                ( _when he woke screaming from nightmares)_

_(when he caught glimpses as char black eyes in crowds)_

_(when he heard amused whispers on the wind)_

                He felt the night pull at him, calling ( _in a voice sweet as whalesong)_ , trying to drag him out to do something, anything ( _everything His gift would allow_ ). More than once, he found himself perched on the edge of his window, power held tightly in his hand.

                But he always let it slip through his fingers.

                Though it always left a burning itch in its wake.

 

                The Overseers began to ask for him supervise the interrogation of the witches. Emily thought it was stupid. Corvo agreed. There was little benefit for him being there. He wouldn’t help interrogate or torture, the Overseers knew that. They said they wanted him to there for clarification. They said they needed to know if the experiences of some of the possible witches were suspicious or just what happened in the streets during the plague. They didn’t know many particulars of what he’d done during the Interregnum. But they knew enough to realize he knew the state of those streets during that time better than they did. Emily was on the fence about it, but still wasn’t quite sure. Corvo thought it made no sense. There were plenty of guards and such who had seen those streets. Corvo read the reports of the interrogations, anyway. It wouldn’t be hard for him to underline parts that look suspicious ( _anything to avoid the chaos to avoid putting on a show_ ) and send it back to the Overseers.

                And then he remembered.

                A familiar face and cold, salt-stinging lips brushing against the bloodied back of his hand.

                “I wonder _just how many heretics will need to point the finger at_ you _, my dear, before the Overseers begin to truly doubt,”_ He had said as they stood before a shrine, the light warping wrong around them.

                ( _it had to start somewhere_ )

                Emily was still unsure when he agreed. There was no way to avoid this. Someone would accuse him either way. It might be better if he avoided the interrogations and the people who may recognize him. But he wore the mask in the days when he used His gift. It couldn’t do too much harm, and perhaps the Overseers would be less likely to believe the eventual accusations if they trusted him, believed he had nothing to hide.

                He followed the Overseers into the Interrogation Room, his hands clasped right over left behind his back. It was partially because he was used to standing that way. It was partially because the itch was beginning to grow worse. It was partially because when he saw the scrawny woman strapped into the chair, he could only recall his own time in that chair.

                ( _it’ll all stop if you just confess_ )

                The Overseers began their questions. Corvo stood in the back of the lot, unmoving, hands still clasped. Their words buzzed in the air, but he heard very little of it. The memories _(the nightmares_ _that never went away never faded_ ) seemed to fill him. He remembered the feel of the knives, the burn of a white-hot iron against his skin. He remembered careful questions and useless promises and threats. He remembered clamping his mouth shut, determinedly keeping his words behind his teeth, opening his mouth only to scream.

                Corvo felt pale and cold.

                But this woman wasn’t him.

                “ _Please_ ,” she begged. “Please, I’m not a witch! I’m not! I just see—please you have to believe me, I came to the Abbey for _help!_ ”

                The Overseers glanced at each other behind their golden masks and glanced at Corvo, who stood still, refusing to do more than observe.

                The woman thrashed against the bindings in panic, seeing the knives on the table.

                “You told the Overseers that you have seen a man with black eyes and were found in the possession of a carved piece of bone. Please elaborate on these experiences,” the Overseer closest to her said in a kind voice ( _as if he were there to help and not carve her to ribbons until she admitted to enough to have her burned_ ).

                Corvo focused on the conversation before him. If he concentrated carefully on them, the memories faded to a whisper. He could handle a whisper.

                “Yes,” the woman said. “It started during the plague, before the Lord Regent—the first one—was taken out of power. I found an empty building marked for the plague and went to hide in the basement; I wasn’t sick but I didn’t have anywhere to go, and the plague-marked buildings were safe if there were no Weepers. The Guards didn’t check for squatters there, they didn’t want to go inside. I was hiding in the basement when a man came, he had a bone charm. He was sick, very sick, but he kept clinging to the charm and said it would bring luck and health. I thought he was crazy but you learned to share space with even the worst sorts in those days. The rats came as soon as he died, a swarm so big I couldn’t leave. I called for help but no one heard—the Guards wouldn’t go into the plague buildings, you know.”

                Corvo felt a chill wash over him. He knew this story. He had heard it before. As she spoke, he tried to tell himself that it was nothing. Surely dozens, maybe even hundreds of people had similar experiences during the Interregnum. But deep in his gut, he was certain he knew how the story ended.

                “I thought I was going to die. I had been calling for so long, but no one came. I called a little less often. But eventually, someone heard me.”

                Corvo began to feel sick.

                “He climbed down into the basement. He killed the rats. I owe him my life.”

                Corvo felt panic building in his chest. She had seen the mask. The Overseers knew it was him. Had she seen him blink to the platform with the dead body and the bone charm? Had she seen him take it?

                ( _he didn’t think the accusations would start so soon_ )

                “Who was this man?” the Overseer asked.

                “The masked man,” she answered. “The one from the wanted posters.”

                Corvo schooled his face into careful blankness as the eyes of every Overseer turned toward him.

                “What happened then?”

                “He left. I left soon after and found a new building.”

                He almost breathed a sigh of relief. It was a very close call. He did let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

                The interrogation continued. The Overseers didn’t make use of their knives; she told them quite willingly when she fell ill, a dying man gave her a carved rune and told her it was how he stayed alive so long. She kept it ( _but only because the disease addled her mind she wouldn’t have accepted it otherwise_ ). She started to think of it as a good luck charm because she was cured not long after. But it gave her strange dreams of a world where the light twisted and curved and boats and rocks and whales hung in the air.

                As she spoke, the Mark began to slowly climb to a burn.

                She told the Overseers of a man with black eyes. She began seeing him soon after the dreams began. At first she thought she was sick again, but he began to appear more and more often. It frightened her. She tried to throw the rune away, thinking it might be the cause, but it always ended up back on her dresser. The black-eyed man was everywhere and she was so frightened.

                The black-eyed man appeared, directly behind her, but no Overseer did so much as flinch.

                She dissolved into blabbering pleads about how she wasn’t a witch and that she didn’t do anything wrong.

                Corvo’s hand felt as if it had been stuck in a furnace. He clenched his jaw, carefully keeping his gasp of pain behind his lips. He tightened his right hand around his left.

                A smirk twisted on His lips.

                The Outsider didn’t break eye contact as he began to circle from behind the woman’s chair into the group of Overseers. They tried to ask her for more information, but as He came into her line of sight, the interrogation went out of control. She thrashed against her bindings as His eyes slid from Corvo to her.

                “He’s _there_ right _there!”_ she screamed, His smirk widening. He stood amongst the Overseers who looked around nervously. “Don’t you _see_ him!”

                “My dear, men this boring will never see me,” the Outsider said.

                She began screaming, repeating again and again ( _he’s there he’s right there he’s there_ ), and the lead Overseer sighed heavily.

                “Take her out of here,” he said. Other Overseers began unbinding the woman and hauling her from the room as she screamed. The Outsider waved lazily in parting.

                The remaining Overseer turned to Corvo, who only narrowly managed to avoid looking at ( _supposedly_ ) empty air. Corvo met the Overseer’s eyes as deep, black eyes turned back to him.

                “I apologize, Corvo,” the Overseer said, seeming sincerely regretful. As he spoke, the Outsider crossed his arms ( _watching and waiting as always but suddenly visible_ ). “I know this isn’t an easy place for you to be in.”

                A smile curled on His lips.

                Corvo nodded. He didn’t trust his voice, not with the way the Mark scorched.

                “Normally they aren’t that bad. I appreciate you agreeing to help. I hope this won’t scare you off from them, but you don’t really scare easily, do you?” the Overseer said as he walked toward the exit. Corvo walked with him ( _in the corner of his eye he could see Him watching his black black eyes turning but making no motions to follow_ ).

The Overseer left the room first. As Corvo closed the door, he turned to see inside the room.

                The Outsider hadn’t moved.

                He only offered a grin.

 

                The burning didn’t fade. He escaped to a bathroom, tore his glove off, and scratched at the Mark, but found it to be little help. He splashed water on his face, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. When he looked up into the mirror, He was standing just over his shoulder. He whipped around.

                Nothing.

                 ( _it’s been a long and stressful day)_

_(eyes can play tricks on a man)_

_(he isn’t that woman they dragged away)_

_(He only ever appears to him at a shrine)_

Corvo shut off the water and dried his face.

                ( _at least He only appeared at shrines before today_ )

                He pulled his glove back on and left the bathroom, grateful that it was late afternoon. There was still dinner and the evening to work through, but he could cope with that.

                ( _as long as he didn’t keep seeing Him around every corner_ )

 

                Corvo retired early that night. Emily was put to bed, security was checked once, and that was all. On a normal day he would’ve been out patrolling still and would have at least checked security an extra two times.

                ( _he just isn’t very helpful tonight)_

_(it is difficult to keep lookout for intruders when He keeps appearing)_

_(with the same smug smirk on His face every time)_

He enters his room and immediately reaches for the power of His gift.

                ( _he had made his decision weeks ago on that dirt road in the dark)_

_(his options are to cope with the itch or use his powers as he once did)_

_(he chose neither)_

                Corvo stopped time and turned to look around his room with eyes that could see through the walls and furniture. He blinked to the window, to his bed, on top of his dresser, back to his window. The itch faded much more slowly than it did before. He completed the circuit time and time again, keeping time frozen around him. He drank one of Piero’s ( _bitter disgusting useful)_ elixirs. He continued.

                This wasn’t blinking between rooftops and sneaking behind guards, but it was something. There was no rush, but it was enough. The clock was ticking with the Overseers. They were going to catch on eventually, he didn’t doubt that. He needed time to find a way to soften the blow, do everything he could to earn their trust and avoid their suspicion. He blinked atop his dresser, perched like it’s some balcony railing ( _like there are guards patrolling below_ _and no other way to even cross the street_ ), paused in the stale, still air of frozen time. He thought today went well enough. They put him in a room full of ( _not quite old enough_ ) memories ( _and red hot irons and fake fake promises_ ), made him listen to the maddened wails of a ( _set up_ ) witch ( _that would be burned just to serve His purpose_ ), of a woman he had once saved. They had no reason to suspect him ( _why would they they didn’t see Him there after all_ ) and when some of those men glanced at him from behind their gold masks as they left, the guilt there was undeniable.

                And yet.

                And yet some only heard her mention of a masked savior.

                Saw only the connection between the Lord Protector and a witch.

                Corvo snorted in irritation, jumped from the dresser, blinked to the safety of his sill. He steps from the sill, begins pacing, blinking every few steps, scratching absently at his hand. His thoughts swirl around the dilemma of the Overseers ( _and intentionally away from the real cause of his problems_ ). His concern in this exercise isn’t honing his skills. It’s not even really to solve his problem with the clergy. He can’t cope with the itch ( _who can cope with a burning hand_ ). He can’t entertain ( _not as he once did not with so much to lose)_. So he’d cheat. Wear away the itch with whatever won’t catch ( _avoidable_ ) attention. Already, his fingers weren’t drifting to scratch the back of his hand as his mind drifted. Soon after, the itch stopped altogether.

                Corvo found himself lost in the rhythm. It was like a patrol he knew too well. Then, his eyes searched of their own accord, feet walking out familiar beats as his mind turned to other issues. His body knew exactly how many steps he needed to take before he stopped, glanced for movement, turned, and continued. Now was no different, not in the mechanics.

                His mind focused on outwitting the Overseers. His body simply moved.

                Step, step, step, blink.

                ( _what will he do the first time he’s implicated?)_

Step, step, blink, turn.

                 ( _how else could he gain the abbey’s trust without looking like he was going out of his way?)_

                Step, step, blink, step, step, blink.

                ( _what would he do if it wasn’t enough?_ )

                Turn.

                Repeat.

                Step, step, step, blink.

                ( _what would he do if cheating wasn’t good enough?_ )

                “Dear, dear Corvo.”

                Step, step, freeze.

                Turn.

                “Clever, my dear.”

                He was sitting ( _managing to lounge_ ) on the window sill. He had one foot tucked up close, one arm resting on His knee. His other leg dangled from the sill, kicking lightly ( _like a child who had been made to sit still for too long_ ). He gave him His favorite smile ( _his perfect anglerfish grin_ ) and His black eyes twinkled _(like stars that came out after a storm only to show you that you were so so far off course_ ).

                “I’ll admit I didn’t think you would try it. I underestimated you again. You have such a delightful tendency to find the gray in a black and white world.  It’s one of the things I love about you, my dear.”

                Corvo finds himself frozen still ( _as the motes hanging in paused time around them_ ). The Outsider steps down from the sill, movement fluid ( _like an oil slick over restless waves_ ), and His favorite smile still hangs on His lips.

                He stood there for a moment, two, three. The two locked eyes.

                And suddenly, Corvo knew what a guppy felt like when it tried to stare down a shark.

                The Outsider stepped through the air, appearing only inches from Corvo. He had enough time to realize that he had made a mistake before He pressed a firm ( _but strangely gentle_ ) hand against his shoulder and shoved him back against the wall.

                “It wasn’t quite clever enough, dearest,” He said, voice dropping to a murmur that ghosted easily through the air ( _but twisted and reverberated through the frozen space of his room as if it were the void_ ). “When made to choose between two impossible options, you have a way of making your own. It’s interesting. Intriguing. It’s why you bear my Mark the best, Corvo.”

                His spare hand reached out to brush along the Mark on his hand.

                “You never try to entertain. You try to follow your conscience. The Interregnum allowed you to do both. But under Emily’s rule, you strive for peace. You are striving to be boring, my dear.”

                His hand twists around Corvo’s like a vice, His breath ( _cold like a midnight breeze across waves_ ) brushing against his ear.

                “You can do so much better.”

                The Outsider leaned away to meet his eyes.

                ( _his heart beat fast)_

_(his thoughts stuttered to a stop)_

_(somewhere along the line he had forgotten to breathe properly_ )

                The anglerfish smile was missing as the Outsider held his eyes for moment after moment, much too long ( _as if He were limited to human acceptability as if he could ever be bound and tamed even by petty courtesies_ ).

                The hand on his shoulder slid down to cover the Heart, Her Heart, where it rested in his right breast pocket.

                “Corvo. Lord Protector. You won the title with blood, struggle, and not a small bit of luck. If it hadn’t been your determined, rebellious Empress who made that final choice, you would be back at home on Serkonos, guarding docks, aboard a pirate ship, tending grapes in a vineyard for pennies. Yet here you are. Do you know why, Corvo?”

                He shook His head ( _an inch at most_ ) in silence.

                The vice around his hand disappeared, the ( _freezing cold_ ) hand settling above his own heart.

                “Because the need to protect is knotted deep within your soul. It runs through your veins, pumps along through your arms and toes and head and heart. You are _desperate_ to put others before yourself, Corvo. When you are needed, when the benefit of those you put above yourself is on the line, you are _splendid_. My dear, you _shine_. But when that is stripped from you?”

                The Outsider pulled His left hand away, Her Heart hanging in His hand. His right hand tightened over his heart.

                “You rot. You molder and waste away. Your soul, so desperate to serve your supposed betters, your loved ones, becomes a cesspool. You scum over and become bitter and soul-sick, and the dank and the muck are those who cage you. The guards. The nobles. The Overseers. Even now, dear Corvo. They push and pull you and you are trapped in what a Lord Protector _should_ be. You protect as best you can. You protected your Empress bodily. But you stagnated. The vipers twisted around her, caught her, stole her from you.”

                He took Corvo’s Marked hand, gently cupping it in his. He turned it upwards and pressed the Heart into his hands.

                ( _he felt distant)_

 _(he felt alone at sea with these whispered words the seas breeze that pushed idly at his ship_ )

                ( _he felt the words slip deep within him like that breeze that slips between boards into the cabins of sleeping men_ )

                ( _he felt sucked into the eyes before him like a man overboard sucked into the depths below)_

 _(he felt his fingers tighten around the heart like an overboard sailor clutching the only rope thrown to him_ )         

                “You can’t protect her anymore. You failed, Corvo. _You couldn’t save her_. You were what a Lord Protector _should_ be, not what a protector _needs_ to be. You stagnated. But the Interregnum came, turned the world upside down. You fought for everything you could, scrabbled like a rat for scraps. But _oh_ , Corvo, my dear, how you _shined_.”

                The smile that played at His lips was odd. Unfamiliar.

                ( _not an anglerfish but that of family finally seeing their sailor home from sea_ )

                “You had Emily to protect. Everything to win, lofty goals to help not only yourself. Not even just Emily. My dear, for those few weeks, the whole of Dunwall was yours to protect. And you did better than most any Emperor has ever done. You claimed the Empire as your responsibility and, from the shadows and sewers, saved them all. But that was the Interregnum, and the Interregnum is over.”

                The strange smile fell from His face. His hands took Corvo’s spare hand and curved it against the heart as He spoke.

                “Now, little Emily sits on the throne. The guards and nobility and Overseers are still in place. They _will_ weave around her. The Interregnum did not change them as it did you, and so many like you. They did not fear the plague, not really. They did not fight to survive. They see things as they were before Jessamine fell. They _will_ make things as they were before. You’ve felt it already, Corvo. Their restrictions closing around you like the bars of Coldridge. They want you to be—“

                “As a Lord Protector should be,” Corvo muttered.

                There was a pause, a brief flare of surprise around His eyes, before a smile bent around His lips. 

                “Yes. As a Lord Protector should be. But that isn’t what a Lord Protector needs to be. It’s not what _Emily_ needs you to be. But there is a dilemma here, my dear. You need to protect Emily. There just isn’t a clear threat for you to see. Oh, the vipers will vie amongst themselves. But if you tracked every little move they made as they jockey amongst themselves, you wouldn’t be able to protect her life. I want to see you _shine_ , Corvo, I want to see you toss aside what they think you should be. For that, you need a push.

                “You need a threat.”

                The smile returned, a little sad, a little like an anglerfish, and so, so old.

                “I will torment you if I must. I will push you. I will threaten everything you hold dear. Either use my gifts to protect Emily from the vipers, or I _will_ make you use them to protect yourself, protect her from _me_.”

                The smile became all anglerfish.

                “In the Interregnum, you saw the black and white and chose gray. Now, again, you saw the black and white choices I offered you and chose gray. You chose to fight me by pacing in this room. Doing nothing. It isn’t enough, Corvo. You’re being _boring_. You’re _stagnating_. Why would I watch you revert to a cesspool when I can make you _shine_?”

                The god pressed against him, the cold ( _sea-like_ ) breath of His words against his ear again.

                “There is no gray this time, Corvo. I am not the Lord Regent. I am not Admiral Havelock. Choosing gray among the black and white was interesting then. Now it makes you predictable. When I offer you two choices, those are your only choices.”

                The Outsider pulled away, their eyes locking again. Corvo felt cold. The anglerfish smile was missing from His lips. He took a steady step away.

                “Your cleverness, such as it was, was at least a little interesting. I will give you time for it. A small reprieve. Try it again, and you’ll find no such thing gifts to be won.”

                The anglerfish smile returned.

                “Farewell, dear Corvo. And remember—don’t be boring.”

                The Outsider disappeared. Time wavered around him, shook loose from its prison, and began to plunge forward. Corvo slid to the floor, Her Heart still cradled in his hands.

                And for the first time since he felt Her blood on her hands, Corvo felt true panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update! This chapter just really didn't want to cooperate with me for some reason. Also if the Outsider seems a little different in this chapter, don't worry, it'll make sense! Thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this as part of a series because I think I'll probably continue with it, but who knows. We'll see! Feel free to comment!


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